The blog is finally back up and running after far too many months. I’m planning on posting a list of all of the musical/life events that occured over the past two seasons (I miss the Texas winter and spring more and more as we slowly approach surface of the sun temperatures), but I figured a purely musical post would be appropriate to get the ball rolling again.

Anyways, on to the music:

This past Monday, Lindby’s bassist and my good friend, Kyle Claset, gave his Theory Capstone Presentation. For those of you who haven’t delved too deeply into the world of Music Theory majors, a capstone is the equivalent of a senior recital.

Performance majors put on concerts to show their skills. Composition majors (like myself) have a bunch of different people perform their portfolio of works. Theory majors write epic papers (backed up by powerful powerpoint presentations) and argue a certain, specific point in a certain realm of the musical world.

As an example, Kyle tried to persuade his audience of professors and peers that a new type of sonata should be acknowledged and classified alongside the existing five types. The meat of his argument came from providing musical examples that fit into multiple categories and could not be constrained by one classification.

As a composer, I have a natural bias that would have me leaning towards the idea that compostion came before theory. The first mental image I conjure up is that of our ancient ancestors sitting around creating rhythms with primitive drums and perhaps singing in form or another.

However, if I look at it from Kyle’s point of view, I would have to admit that the very act of defining rhythm and providing even the most basic of structures would reside in the world of theory.

It’s very much in the vein of which came first, the chicken or the egg.

Kyle and I have actually discussed how the ideas of composition and theory are essentially at war with each other. Composers create what they feel/think sounds good. Theorists try to make sense of it and define it. Of course, even though they’re at war with each other, one could never exist without the other.

And upon further thought, this conflict between the two arts actually helps both of them progress forward towards further innovation. Composers always want to break new ground and come up with ideas that have never been tried. This partially stems from the fact that theory has defined and classified what has already been done. If a composer succeeds at this goal, then theorists suddenly have a plethera of new work ahead of them. It goes hand in hand, and one fire basically feeds the other.

It’s ying and yang. It’s life and death. It’s order and chaos. It’s the power and drive of opposites.

Before I begin though, credit must be given to Dr. Linton Powell, retired UTA professor/organist/musical historian, for passing this story along in my Music History I class. He claims this story actually occurred, and that historical documents and letters exist to back it up.

The setting: late 1700’s, Europe (likely in Vienna), the home of a rich nobleman

The context: Mozart teaching piano to the daughter of one of his patrons. People don’t always realize this, but even the greatest musicians/composers often needed other forms of income (usually teaching) to augment their performance/commission revenue.

The story: During a piano lesson, the patron’s daughter begins to perform one of Mozart’s compositions. Not long into the piece, Mozart joins her on the upper register up the keyboard and begins to improvise a beautiful accompaniment that both embellishes and compliments the components already present.

Naturally.

On an important side-note, those who have ever seen the movie Amadeus will certainly understand that Mozart acted a tad eccentric and just plain strange at times. The film, of course, takes a fair bit of creative and historical license with these traits, but the point comes across loud and clear. If you have not seen it, find a three hour block and allow yourself to experience a cinematic masterpiece.

With that point addressed, back at the piano, Mozart grows tired of the duet with his student. He promptly stands up, walks over to a nearby dinner table, climbs up on the table, and begins to hop around meowing like a cat.